A Touch of Red
by Laura Schiller
Summary: The Doctor sees more than Martha gives him credit for. Set late in season 3.


A Touch of Red

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Doctor Who

Copyright: BBC

"Close your eyes," said the Doctor, holding something behind his back, "And hold out your hands."

"It's not a dead snake, is it?" replied Martha, who had grown up with a younger brother's pranks.

"No, no, nothing like that." The Doctor flashed his signature grin and held out his closed fist. "Go on, close your eyes."

As soon as she did, something soft and circular fell into her cupped palms. She felt the velvety fabric and the stretchiness; opening her eyes, she was that the thing was a rich burgundy color. A perfect match for the jacket and tank top she had worn on the night the Doctor first invited her to travel with him.

_He remembered that?_

"It's lovely," she said, smiling, as she slipped it onto her wrist to admire the effect against her brown skin. "What's the occasion?"

"Occasion?" He shrugged. "Dunno. Since we're in time machine, we could always argue that it's your birthday somewhere. Or Christmas. I love Christmas, it's such a cheerful human holiday – although for some reason, mine always seem to go pear-shaped ... "

She leaned against the TARDIS console and waited for him to wander back from the tangent he'd gone off on, watching him with alert dark eyes to wait for whatever his main point might be.

"Don't tell me," she interrupted with a wry answering smile when said point was not forthcoming. "We're about to go someplace extra-dangerous, aren't we? You're trying to butter me up."

"Would I do that, Martha Jones?" He placed a hand on his heart in such a melodramatic manner that she couldn't be sure if the hurt in his eyes was genuine or not. "Have I ever intentionally put you in danger?"

"Well, not intentionally." She made sure to keep her irony gentle, just in case.

"So, will you _please_ stop looking gift horses in the mouth? Well – a gift scrunchie. And it doesn't have a mouth. But you know what I mean."

She laughed and tugged on the scrunchie, letting it snap back against her wrist, the rubber band cushioned by the velvet.

"I know."

She sat back down on the chair at the corner of the console room, taking advantage of the TARDIS' momentary stability. She was just picking up the Dalek physiology textbook she'd been reading when a throat-clearing noise above her, and a hand descending on the page, made her look up. There stood the Doctor, raking one hand through his spiky brown hair, as he only did in those rare moments he was nervous or unsure.

"Truth be told, Martha," he said, "You've been wearing a lot of black lately, haven't you?"

She looked down at her outfit: black shoes, black jeans, black leather jacket. She shrugged.

"Yeah, I guess. It's practical, you know? Keeps me warm. Doesn't show stains much."

What she did not tell him was that she hadn't _felt_ like wearing red, purple, or any other colors lately. Not after spending three months swathed in a black-and-white maid's uniform and gray coat at Farningham School for Boys. Not after Jenny, her only friend at that place, had been murdered and her body posessed by the mother of the "Family of Blood". Not after all the other deaths she'd seen. As for the other reason, she didn't care to think about that. It was too embarrassing, what she'd said.

_He's everything, just_ everything_ to me, and he doesn't even look at me – but I don't care …_

Well, he was looking at her now.

"That red jacket you used to wear," he said, a little too casually, but with a look in his ageless eyes that meant a great deal more. "It … suited you. That pineapple hairstyle, too."

"_Pineapple?_"

"Yeah, all spiky on top!" He reached for the top of her head, gesturing to indicate the high, pointed ends of the ponytail she used to wear, and just like that, any gravity in his expression was gone. She dodged away, giggling.

"Look who's talking, mister! D'you get your satellite reception up there or something?"

"Come to think of it, that would be brilliant. Aha – made you laugh!"

He said that with such a triumphant pump of his fist, as if it were an achievement equivalent to freeing solar entities or banishing Carrionites, that her laugh was stopped by sheer astonishment.

"Suits you even better than red," was his explanation. "Your laugh, I mean. Haven't heard it in a while. Oh and, er, by the way… "

"Yes?"

"No one else has been wearing that. It's brand new. Just in case you were wondering."

They both knew what he meant. His attempt at diplomacy was curiously touching.

Martha had no illusions about what his gift might mean, but her realism did not prevent her from feeling glad. It was a small thing, inconsequential perhaps, but also exactly what she needed.

"Thank you, Doctor," she said, from the bottom of her heart.


End file.
